Ultimate Distraction
by MelodyWinters
Summary: All John ever wanted was for Sherlock to confess, just once, how he felt. Returning from a dangerous case, John had enough. He wanted the man he put his life on the line to protect at all costs to fess up. Where they just Sherlock and Watson partners fighting crime? Or something much more.


**Authors Note **Hello all and welcome to my maiden fic! I had stumbled across the series by accident the other night on Netflix and was instantly swept into the world on Baker St. Love the show, love the characters, the emotion ... simply everything. The show is BRILLIANT. So, naturally I HAD to write a fanfic. And here I am! This is my first story, and hopefully not my last. I am very open to all comments good and constructive criticism so please feel free to let me know if I handled these two appropriately.

Hope you enjoy!

**Disclosure** I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, nor am I making any money for writing this fic.

Ultimate Distraction

Sherlock Holmes sat in his worn and dust covered chair, right leg crossed over left, his fingers gripped the arm so tightly his nails left marks in the material. His body tensed as he stared across the room. John lay haphazardly on the couch, in exactly the same position he collapsed in, still dressed in his blood soaked shirt and filthy pants. He watched the steady rise and fall of the mans chest. They returned to the flat only an hour ago, after ending a week long investigation that proved intense, dangerous, and left John battered and badly bruised.

He felt thankful it was over.

Sherlock heard slight foot steps and then Mrs. Hudson stood at the threshold. A porcelain tea pot and two dainty cups were on the silver tray she carried in her hands. She issued him a small smile as she closed the distance between them, placing the tray on the coffee table.

"Still sleeping, I see," she noted quietly. "Poor thing. You boys must have had one heck of a week."

"More or less," Sherlock deadpanned, as he is gaze fell on John once more.

A silence stretched between the two that began to grind on Sherlock's nerves. Normally he tolerated the woman's presence. But now he wanted to be alone. He even _needed_ to be alone with his thoughts about the man who suffered injuries on his account, trying once again to save him.

_You have to stop doing that dumb shit, you wally, _Sherlock chastised_._

He closed his eyes and sighed grimly. They had a close one this time. Too close.

Movement to his left informed him that Mrs. Hudson still remained in the room.

"You are still here." He opened his eyes and watched as the woman claimed the chair directly across from him.

"You need to tell John, you know."

Sherlock shifted uneasily in his hair.

"Tell him what? That that shirt looks hideous on him? I will ensure he burns it the second he wakes up," he shot back, trying to deflect the serious tone.

A frown tugged on Mrs Hudson's mouth and she shook her head.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Please do elaborate. I have spent the past six days chasing down what ended up to be one of the most difficult suspects to date. My partner looks like hell, and I have one bugger of a headache." The words tumbled passed his lips quickly. He paused, drawing in a deep breath. "Now. What exactly are you trying to say?"

She reached out, gently resting her hand over his and squeezed slightly.

"You are such a brilliant man, but yet to stubborn to see what is under your very nose. You know what I am talking about."

He did know. The woman read him like a book and knew the very day John arrived at 221b Baker Street what his feelings were. And she did not make any effort to be discrete about the fact either.

But she didn't understand him. No one did. He was unable to express such pathetic emotions. Unable to grasp such a concept as to why people would leave themselves so vulnerable. He concluded long ago that love, and any other weak feeling belonged with the normal and boring beings.

He opened his mouth as he started to ask her to leave the flat but she held up a finger to his lips, instantly silencing him.

"I may be old, but I still know love when I see it and the bond between you and John is undeniable. You need to tell him how you feel before you lose your chance. You owe it to John as well as yourself."

"Noted," he muttered irritably and pulled away from her touch. He looked away from her, ending the conversation.

Mrs. Hudson rose out of the chair and without saying another word, she left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

"Crazy woman," he muttered as he reached for his tea cup. When he raised it to his lips, he realized his hand was trembling.

_**SWSWSW**_

Slowly John stirred, coming out of his deep slumber. He began to stretch to work out the kinks he earned from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position on the couch. Pain shot through his right leg and his head felt heavy. Gradually he began to recall the recent events, taking inventory of where he got every bruise.

"I don't want to party like that anytime soon," he muttered, struggling to sit up.

"Take your time. You have been through hell and back."

_Sherlock_.

Last image he had of the detective was him standing off with the criminal, a man dubbed the Phoenix, gun point to gun point. He remembered vaguely lying on the ground after an intense fist fight with the burly man. One kick to his injured leg left him helpless, unable to avoid the blow to the head. Instantly his eyes flew open and he glanced around, disoriented.

"What is going on? Where are we?" he demanded.

"Relax, John. We are safe at the flat. Now stop moving before you give yourself a bigger headache then you all ready have."

"We are home? How? I don't remember a thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thanks to Mycroft, because he appeared at the last second as always. You know, sometimes his dramatic entrances really annoys me. And you call _me_ the show off."

Slowly, John moved into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the arm of the couch.

"So we won?"

"No, John. The perpetrator allowed us to have a time out and watch some sitcom on the telly," he shot back, more agitated than usual. "Of course we won. Don't we always? Have some tea then go wash up. You look like hell."

"I love your subtle honesty," John shot back. "But I think I will pass on the tea. I need something much stronger." When his head stopped spinning, he rose to his feet and made his way to the kitchenette. He retrieved a glass and a bottle of vodka, mixing it with water. He returned to his chair, glass in hand. As an after thought he retrieved the rum and placed it on the floor, next to his feet. Sherlock arched an eyebrow, curiously.

"Are you planning on drinking all that?"

"I plan on drinking as much of it as it will take to dull the pain," John shot back. "After all. I think I deserve it."

"Agreed."

John downed two more glasses of the clear liquid as Sherlock recounted for the missing time frame from John's memory. Slowly, he started to remember what happened. How he gave chase to the Phoenix; one of the most dangerous and ruthless criminals they dealt with in a long time. John knew the risk, but it was his job to stop him. His job to protect.

Not this time. Sherlock saved _him_.

He closed his eyes as bits of what happened drifted into his memory.

_John! John! For the love of God stay down! Stay with me John. Don't leave me. Not now. Help is here. You will be okay._

_You have to be okay._

_Please._

There had been a catch in his voice.

He heard every word. Every silent plea that was meant only for the two of them to hear.

"How do you do it?" he asked as he refilled is glass once more. Stronger this time.

Sherlock angled a questioning look his way.

"Do what?"

"Act like such a heartless bastard all the time. I know you're not."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his shoulders.

"And what theory do you have to support that statement? Of course I am a heartless bastard. I am Sherlock Holmes"

"You saved me last night."

"Oh please, John. Do we have to go through this? Both of us know I am no hero." He cleared his throat dramatically. "I just didn't feel like attending a funeral this week is all. I'm far too busy for that nonsense."

John chuckled drunkenly. "Sure. Whatever you say."

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair then quickly stood. He began pacing around the room, adjusting books agitatedly and looking out the window.

"What is wrong?" John questioned. "Sit down. You're making me dizzy."

"No. It is the copious amount of alcohol that will alter your mental state. I have nothing to do with it."

Finally, Sherlock came to a stand still in the centre of the room. He folded his hands together behind his back, and titled his head. He had that thoughtful look on his face he always got when he was trying to put together pieces of mystery.

"John," he started, slowly. "There is something...I need to discuss with you."

The seriousness in his voice caught John's attention. Slowly, he made it to his feet and went to Sherlock.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked away, bouncing on his heels anxiously. He sighed and turned to John, locking stares. Instantly John noticed something in his eyes. It wasn't the usual sarcasm, or the look he got when he was bored and irritated. He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it lit a fire in the pit of his stomach.

"I just wanted to tell you that...I'm ... glad that.. we are home. That _you_ are home. Safe."

"Well that makes two of us," John replied, raising his glass. He took a sip.

"John. There is also something else."

John's ears perked up and he took one step closer.

"Yes?" He waited eagerly, praying he was going to finally hear the words he longed for.

"I...We..." Sherlock's mouth quivered and his face went blank. "Well now that you are on your feet, somewhat let's look for our next case than, shall we?" He turned and went to his lap top, instantly bringing up his heavily loaded email account.

"Excuse me? Right now? Can we not recuperate first from the previous one?"

"Shhhh. I'm reading. Be quiet."

John felt anger and frustration fill him. He was tired of the mind games Sherlock played. Just when he thought he would get him to say something real and meaningful, Sherlock always changed the subject. It was getting old. Fast.

There was one way to get answers. He learned form the best. To get down right bloody pissed off. He watched Sherlock bend all rules to get what he wanted. But this was John's game. John's hunt. He wanted answers on where he stood, where they stood in their relationship, if in fact, they had one at all.

"Why do you do this?"

"Because it is my job. If I don't have a case to deal with I go stark raving mad. You should know this by now."

"No. I mean why do you always start to say something, then change your mind."

Sherlock shrugged. "I lose my train of thought. I do have a lot going on in this mind of mine. But I excuse your ignorance. I do not expect someone like you to understand the hardships I endure."

"Liar!"

John heaved the partially emptied tumbler to the floor, watching it as the glass exploded into hundreds of tiny fragments.

"Mrs. Hudson will be pissed, you know," Sherlock commented, without missing a beat.

"Stop it!"

"Stop what?"

"Stop... _that_. That thing you do when you try to avoid talking about something that makes you uncomfortable."

"You are the one that appears to be under some duress. Perhaps you need another drink? I don't think you had enough."

"I don't need another fucking drink." John's voice snapped through the room. "What I _need_ is your attention. Look at me damn it!"

"I'm busy," he muttered, refusing to move away from the laptop.

John balled his hands into tight fists, resisting the urge to pummel Sherlock.

_You bloody bastard, _John thought_. After all we have been through, how dare you stand there with that smug look and ask that?_

"What I need is...I want to know," he stammered, struggling for the right words. There were many opportunities where he should have just spoke up, said how he truly felt, hoping that in return Sherlock would do the same.

But he backed out every time.

"Drink up, John," Sherlock muttered. "And come here. I want your opinion on this one. Their case sounds fascinating."

John refused to go to him.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" he asked outright.

"What is it that _I_ am afraid of?" he repeated slowly, as he appeared to be struggling in a manner unaccustomed for him. "I have my fears, John. As you well know."

John closed the distance between them, his body vibrating with anger.

"You know what I mean. Why can't you say it? Why won't you allow yourself to admit how you truly feel?"

"Feel about what?"

"About _us_, you ass hole!" John blurted, unable to rein in his temper anymore. "Turn away from the lap top before I shoot it full of bullet holes."

"Us? I feel grand about us. We are Sherlock and Watson. The great detective duo. What is not to love?" He leaned slightly at the waist, hovering over the lap top. "And you will be doing no such thing. Besides. Your gun is still in your coat pocket."

John reached out, grabbing two fist fulls of material from Sherlock's white shirt, jerking the detective to his feet. He shook him out of frustration, glaring into those piercing blue eyes.

"Don't mock me, Mr. Holmes," he growled. "This isn't Molly or Mrs Hudson or your brother you are talking to. It is me. John Watson. The man who risks everything, everyday making sure your ass returns home after every case. The man who would move heaven and earth for you just so you could find happiness. The man who would give up his last breath, just to ensure you would live on to see another day, another case."

Hot tears of frustration threatened in the corner of his eyes. He sniffed, struggling against the onslaught he knew was coming. He loosened his grip, smoothing out the material that he had clung to so desperately and took one step back. He shoved his hands into his pants pocket, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Do you know why I would do all that? Do you know why I risk my life for you? Why I go almost insane trying to keep up with you?" He brought his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "It's not because it is part of my job. It's because...I love you."

Slowly he dropped his hand away from his face, daring to look into Sherlock's face once more. "There. I said it. I love you, Sherlock. And there is nothing you can say or do that will change that."

Sherlock moved uneasily. "You're cut off. You clearly had too much to drink."

John narrowed his eyes. "On the contrary. I didn't have enough."

He didn't wait for an answer. His confession left him feeling drained, dizzy and in desperate need of another drink. He stumbled to the counter, clumsily retrieving another glass from the cupboard. His hands shook as he poured the liquid, spilling some on the counter top. He didn't bother adding the water to dilute it's pure strength. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a long pull, wincing as the liquid burned his throat.

"John."

His name was spoken no louder than a whisper. Sherlock called his name again, and the desperation in his voice was what made John turn slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

"I'm listening," he muttered.

Sherlock licked his lips. He looked thoughtful as if he was searching for the right words to say.

"John. You know my opinion on the topic. I understand..._love_...on a chemical level. Nothing more nothing less. It is nothing but an emotion. And we all know what an emotionless, insensitive bastard I am."

Something glinted in Sherlock's eyes that begged John to let it go. That he didn't want to discuss any further.

_No. This ends tonight. I need to know._

John shifted and held his glass to the other man. "Hold this," he told him. When Sherlock refused to take the glass from him, he raised his voice."Hold. This," John repeated, much firmer. He shoved the glass into Sherlocks hands and observed.

"John what are you doing? I-" But he fell quite as he stared down at his hands. They were trembling.

"Yes, Sherlock. Love is an emotion. One you can not control. Not even now. You're own body betrays you."

Sherlock moved to the counter, quickly setting the glass down. He gripped the counter top with both hands as if to steady himself. He closed his eyes tightly drawing in deep, long raspy breaths as he attempted to control a storm that was rising inside. A storm John ignited.

"You're right, John," Sherlock finally spoke up after a long stretch of silence. "Love is an emotion. Emotions are distractions. Which is why I refuse to give in. Why I refuse to care." He glanced at him, peering through the inky black wave that curtained over his eyes.

He felt his body become fixated in place as he watched and listened to Sherlock stumble over his words. "That is your problem. You over think. Over analyze." He reached over and jabbed his finger against Sherlock's forehead. "Shut up that big brilliant brain of yours." He moved his hand pointing in the direction of Sherlock's heart. "And listen to this."

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he stared at John with that deer caught in the headlights look that agitated John to near madness.

"Anyone that seen us together, has told me I belong to you." He coughed slightly, in a feeble attempt to choke down the lump of emotion that stuck in his throat. "What is wrong with me? Am I not good enough for the great Sherlock Holmes? Am I too ordinary?"

Sherlock stared at him and slowly shook his head.

"John Watson. You are anything but ordinary," he whispered.

"Then why? Why won't you let your guard down? For me?"

Sherlock straightened and that look that John knew so well crossed his features. That look he had when he went to his mind palace, where he went for answers in his mind vaults. He held up his hands, moving them randomly until he became still. When he opened his eyes, they were red rimmed and glazed.

"I told you. Emotions to me are a distraction. And you. You are my ultimate distraction, John. You always were. It was always a mystery to me. Probably one of the biggest ones yet."

"What mystery is that?" John asked, his voice tight.

"That how can someone just show up in my life and turn it completely upside down."

"And? You haven't solved that yet?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"I see." John sighed, miserably. He closed his eyes suddenly wishing the blackness of the night outside the window would come and take him away. He felt numb as if everything he hoped one day would come to be, slip away from him.

He felt the other man move closer.

"John. Look at me. I am only going to say this once. So I need your eyes on me. Your full attention."

John did as Sherlock asked, but remained silent. He said all he needed to say. There was nothing left.

"John... What I meant was... Why I didn't bother to solve that mystery is..."

John almost felt sorry for Sherlock as he stumbled pathetically over his words. Sherlock raised a hand, and ran it nervously through his hair. He spun around, took three steps away from John, paused before turning and meeting his gaze once more.

"John. What I am trying to say is...When I solve a mystery, that's it. It's done. End of chapter."

"I don't understand what you mean," John muttered, impatiently.

Sherlock let loose a cackle that only a high functioning sociopath could muster as he quickly, closed the distance between them.

"What I mean, my dear Watson is... I don't want this mystery to be solved. I...I don't want to end this case."

John felt his breath hitch as he understood what Sherlock was trying to say. He felt something burst inside him, warming his very soul.

"It won't be, Sherlock," he promised. "It will never be over between us. I won't let that happen."

"John." His voice cracked but he struggled to maintain composure. Slowly, Sherlock raised his arm, reaching. John closed his eyes as he felt the fingertips brush lightly against his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, leaning into the touch, wanting more.

"Tell me." John begged. "I need to hear it."

Sherlock leaned in, bringing his mouth a hair's breath away from John's ear.

"I... love you."

The words caressed his skin, setting his senses a flame. He felt dizzy with relief and total and utter happiness as his world stopped turning. Sherlock cupped his hands around John's face, slanting his mouth over his, claiming him hungrily, releasing months of pent up emotion. John obliged, parting his lips, welcoming the kiss, savouring his taste. He brought his arms around Sherlock's frame, drawing him closer as they lost themselves in a moment of passion, forgiveness and new promises.

Finally, Sherlock pulled away slightly, allowing them time to catch their breaths, resting his forehead against John's.

"I love you too,"John returned finally as a loan tear escaped and slowly slid down his cheek. They fell into silence once more, but this time it was different. All tension left the room, leaving them with elation, relief and new hope.

A soft cough from the door way made them both turn. Mrs. Hudson stood on the opposite side of the room, looking apologetic for her intrusion.

"I...I heard something break," she stammered. "I thought I ought to check in, make sure you two weren't in any trouble."

The two men shook their head in unison.

"No trouble here,"John replied rather quickly.

"Everything is fine," Sherlock chimed in. They both flashed her innocent smiles.

"Ah-huh," she murmured, eyeing them suspiciously. "Well then. I shall return down stairs." She gave them an impish grin. "Please. Do carry on." Without another word, she disappeared, retreating back to her living quarters on the main floor.

"That woman needs a cat bell around her neck," John muttered.

"I believe we have a small problem on our hands," Sherlock commented once the woman was out of ear shot.

"Oh yeah? What might that be?" John enquired, light headed and reeling in all that had just happened.

"Coming up with explanations to Mrs. Hudson for all the...unexplainable noise she may hear now and then." He angled a smug grin towards John. "We may be getting in trouble. A lot."

"Oh yeah? Is that your deduction, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am willing to test that theory," John replied.

"Shall we?" Sherlock gestured to the closed door down the hallway.

"I believe you are onto something," John returned. "Let's see just how good a team Sherlock and Watson really are."

Together, they disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind them. For John, it was the end of the hunt, the end of his game. From now on, they would Sherlock and Watson, not only partners against crime, but partners for life.

The End!


End file.
